


Dear, Player Two (Please (don't) be her)

by Typewriter_witchcraft



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Bisexuality, F/F, First Love, High School, I'm Sorry, Jealousy, Love Confessions, Oblivious, Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, Regret, The Author Regrets Everything, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, author is so dumb, detailed stupidity, overly specific yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:21:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23060866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Typewriter_witchcraft/pseuds/Typewriter_witchcraft
Summary: Please don't be her. Please be her. I miss you
Kudos: 4





	Dear, Player Two (Please (don't) be her)

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't be her. Please be her. I miss you

Dear Player Two,

I want to be in your space again, your arms, until we’re just passing carbon dioxide back and forth, breathing in each other’s refuse, passing death back and forth like a cigarette. I want you, I want how you used to make me feel. I want your joy, your warmth, your soft giggles in the darkness, swaddled in the same blanket with our legs intertwined on my couch. I want to be able to stare at your lips again- but this time, I don't want to only imagine how they would feel on mine, but to actually go through with it. I want your fake flowers on my dresser, your doodles on my paper towels, your socks left forgotten on the floor of my living room. I want so many things, and I am never going to get them. I love you. I never told you that. I love you so much,  _ loved _ you so much, and you are never going to know. Love is a funny thing. Everyone focuses on what love does for you, what it makes you feel. Nobody focuses on what love takes away.

Love is fear. It is looking at her and realizing,  _ “if I say anything, it fucks everything up.” _ She can’t know. You can hint all you want, you can cuddle her “like a friend,” you can joke about how we both love girls and we both want a girlfriend and we both want _each other_ but you can’t do shit about it. You can’t tell her how you feel. Because even though you know that she likes you, even though we flirt all the time, love is fear. Desperate, and unforgiving, and gut-wrenchingly destructive. In the end, love is what killed us. Or maybe that was me. 

Love is yearning. It is looking into her eyes behind her boyfriend’s back as she smiles at you over his shoulder, looking happier than she has in a months. You don’t realize that she has been unhappy because you got a boyfriend until it is much too late. You break up with him. She doesn’t. Love is pretending to like her boyfriend, too, so that you can keep something in common with her for just a little longer as you feel everything falling apart. Love makes you stick around, makes you make photo albums and listen to her playlists on repeat and beg,  _ beg anyone _ to be “her” enough make you forget her.

Love is jealousy. Love makes you get a new boyfriend, one who is best friends with hers, so you can be with her for just a little while more. Love is hating him, hating him for being boring and bland and  _ not her _ . Love is hating her boyfriend, for being perfect for her even though he is ugly and not that funny and dumb and  _ not you _ . Love is ripping your boyfriend apart in front of her every chance you get, making fun of him and resenting him and making yourself even more miserable than before because you want him to be everything that he is not and she is. Love is pretending to like her boyfriend, letting them make out on the same spot of the couch where she spooned you so many times. It is watching movies with them, imagining yourself in her arms instead of him. It is staring at her while your own boyfriend’s hand is cupping your ass, watching her run her lanky pianist fingers through her boyfriend’s hair and thinking that you are jealous of how good their relationship is, but knowing deep down that the only thing you are jealous of, is him. It is him because he gets what you want, and he doesn’t deserve it. He didn’t walk with her down the halls every day. He didn’t spend every single day of the summer with her. He hasn't known her since fourth grade. He didn’t watch anime’s that he hated because she loved them, and he (you) loved her. He didn't hang out with her and her little sister, putting together puzzles and watching old Disney shows. He didn't cry with her when your favorite TV show ended. He didn’t order her food every single time they went out, because she gets jittery and stumbles over her words at restaurants. He doesn’t know when to take over and when to let her take the reigns. He doesn’t know that she thought she was a lesbian for a while, before realizing that (sadly, dangerously, destructively) she likes boys too. She likes  _ him _ , too. And she doesn’t like you. And he doesn’t even know her. God, I hope he doesn't know her. 

Love is desperation. It is holding on to a dead “friendship” for dear life while it wilts in the palms of your sweat-drenched hands that are filled with the bunched up remnants of her flowers instead of her soft hands. It is breaking the necklace she gave you while buying her a new one. It is singing Your Song to her and simultaneously watching with tears building in your eyes while she sings it to her new boyfriend at a party (so much for Two Player Game). It is watching her shut down as you reach over to hug her, because she knows that this isn’t what it used to be. Love makes you hate what you have because it isn’t what you used to have. It makes you want to destroy everything that is left, but it also makes you grasp the shards so forcefully that the sharp edges cut the fragile strings keeping you together and you  _ just fall apart _ . Love is still buying her flowers even though you know she will just let them wilt.

Love is thinking you have never been in love, until she isn't around.

Love is writing poems in class that you know are for her but you address to "them" instead. It is joking that you don't know why you write poems when you've never been in love. It is lying through your teeth to try to protect yourself, from yourself. 

You watch her blossom with her new boyfriend.

You watch her bond with the friends that you introduced her to in the first year of high school.

You watch her leave you behind, broken and alone, all because you didn’t say the shit you had to two years ago.

I have loved her since we were fifteen.

I didn’t tell her. I was scared. Desperate. Oblivious. _Stupid_. 

Now, I experience her second-hand through the screen of my phone, her joy radiating through Snapchat stories and Instagram posts that aren’t mine.

I hear her in the halls, talking about going on dates that aren’t with me.

Love is not patient. Love is not kind. Love is a thief, a monster, a bitch. Love is hate. Love is missed opportunities, and lonely nights, and crying as you watch her smile at him again and again and again and it will never be you. Love is blaming yourself, and knowing that you are right to do so. Love is writing this 5 months after you last spoke to her outside of school, posting it nearly 3 months after that, because you finally understand how stupid you were and how heartbroken you still are. How can it still hurt this badly? Did I really lose my first love without even realizing that I had one? 

Love is discovering that I didn’t lose a friend, but a girlfriend. The worst part is, we never even got to break up.


End file.
